Afterlife and other things
by Inkpot satsuma
Summary: Post-AGoS. Holmes and Irene have teamed up after their alleged deaths to bring down Moriarty's web of crime. And now Holmes faces his worst nightmare - Mycroft and Irene befriending! No chance of any dignity now. Holmes/Irene. Might be multichapter.
1. Bosom buddies

**Hello there! :) A post-AGoS fic, just a oneshot about Holmes suffering incredibly from Mycroft and Irene's newly made acquaintance! A oneshot, but I miiiiiight turn it into a multichapter story one day. Might. Since I have some story foundation background in this here...**

**Anyway, enjoy poor Sherly in an uneven battle against Mycroft and Irene! I had heaps of fun writing it :D**

**And please review! Reviews are beautiful!**

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The night had been hot and sultry. Motionless, not the lightest breeze brushed the lace sheer curtain in both windows left wide open in weak hopes for at least a breath of air. The air was still, humid and heavy, sticking to the skin and turning the nights into muggy fits of weary restlessness, filtered with the dampness from the sea. And the activities of the night certainly did nothing to help the heat.

Holmes swallowed, laying still, hovering on the brink between awareness and restless sleep. His mind was working in a pleasant, relaxed, slow hum, processing the sensations and thoughts at an unhurried pace – just the right sort for a hot, Genoa morning.

Despite being a port city, in Genoa the proximity of the sea did nothing to alleviate the thick, humid heat, especially at nights. And so Holmes lay last night for unknown lengths of time, hoping to fall asleep, soaked with sweat, with The Woman's no less drenched body pressed hotly against his own, insides purring from the pleasure of lovemaking. Even now, his heart sped up its beat slightly at the memory of the feel of her curves under his hands, lips parted in laboured breaths, chestnut curls tangled and soft. The heat of their passionate embrace and movements was almost insufferably burning, so much so that it broke through the insufferableness and became indescribably exhilarating.

A sour scent of lime brushed his nose and palate, seeping in through the window from the row of lime trees growing along the street just outside the window, the acid green fruit ripening slowly in the sun.

He opened his eyes slowly, in peaceful focus, and turned his head to the side to survey the other half of the bed. Empty. Imprint of her head on the feather pillow, her part of the sheet that served as cover ruffled and crumpled. It didn't surprise him to see she was missing. It was Sunday (unless he'd slept a bit longer than it seemed…), and Irene liked to take a walk around the market, sometimes bearing fresh, exotic fruit as the spoils of her excursions. They'd eat them fresh for breakfast, unaccompanied by anything else, actually enjoying the way the sourness of most flavours seemed to increase the heat for a moment.

Suddenly, he became aware of a chink of porcelain and a quiet, merry laughter in the other room. It was her laughter certainly, and he could hear her talking to someone in that charming, amused tone, but because of the thickness of the walls (and because she closed the door, good God, she didn't lock him in here, did she?) he could not make out the words. But going by the intonation, she was certainly speaking in English.

Something was wrong.

They were _dead_. Dead people don't have people over for breakfast.

Determined to investigate the matter, he untangled himself from the knot of the sheet, threw on a robe, and opened the door, walking into the dayroom.

"Ah, Sherly!"

"Mykie," he drawled in response to the jovial toast his brother made at him with a cup of tea, while Irene smiled radiantly, looking at him over her shoulder. His dishevelled appearance must have been a striking contrast against her neat yet slightly informal look, glamorous as always, even now, when she was officially dead.

Apart from Irene, his brother was the only person who knew he was alive. It needed to be so, in order to dismantle Moriarty's carefully crafted web of crime organisation most efficiently and permanently. But, bearing in mind how Mycroft considered a walk to the barber too much of an ado (and hence had one coming to him), seeing his dear brother in Genoa, a distance considerably farther from his residence than the nearest barber, struck a spark of alert in Holmes' mind and innards.

"The Sleeping Beauty awakens…" Irene spoke in that deliciously taut voice of teasing, and slipped a biscuit into her mouth, before pouring a third cup of tea.

"So this is the _aid_ you've mentioned was giving you information on Moriarty's organisation," Mycroft smiled in a way that boded no good.

Holmes cleared his throat.

"Yes, her input is most… indispensable," he said, briskly taking his seat at the table. "She knows quite a lot of the workings and the mechanics of the establishment… Don't you, darling?" he gave her a thin but wide smile, cocking his head to side.

"Enough to help however I can," Irene spoke in the voice of an innocent offering made to the cause.

"She worked for him," he sold her out while fishing for sugar on the table. "Which is why she's dead," he still didn't like to think about that, about the bloodstained handkerchief tossed so harshly against the chessboard and feeling so soft and helpless in his hand as he collected it gently.

It was she who found him after his own death. She claimed she didn't believe the gossips and newspapers, and, basing on her own knowledge of Moriarty's crime syndicate, followed a course of cities and deductions to at last find him in Austria. But one night, as they lay in each other's arms, taking silent solace in one another's life and existence, she confessed she initially, for a brief time, had fallen for the ruse of his demise. And that it was the worst blow she had to withstand.

Her own survival came as a whirlwind of shock to him, but only for a moment. She had been collecting various information throughout her employment for Moriarty, and the master criminal was aware of that. He did not underestimate her intelligence, which was why he opted to kill her, but he underestimated her health and strength of will to stay alive. Such a simple, simple mistake.

A hum of Mycroft's voice stirred him out of his contemplations, and he looked up from above his tea just in time to hear his older brother finish his words:

"…Doctor Watson had titled _A Scandal in Bohemia_ – I was most impressed. Sherly got quite the lesson, eh?"

"I would consider that a specialised branch of education," Irene smiled over her own teacup, before taking an elegant sip. "Freshly spurted, of course."

His wretched brother chuckled, dropping a cube of sugar (another one, bad news for the blood levels) into his tea.

"Lesson on women and their clever ways?"

"I should say lesson on eyesight. How sometimes it is good to extend it beyond the tip of one's own nose," Irene smiled into another elegant sip of tea. Blasted, blasted woman.

Mycroft exhaled a thrilled chuckle.

"Oh, Sherly, this woman is delightful! Wherever have you been hiding her?"

"In the basement, between the pickled pears and the old bicycle," he grumbled, reaching for a bowl of pomegranate arils and scooping himself a generous portion with a spoon into a free teacup.

"I no longer wonder he kept your photograph on his desk," Mycroft went on, and he could do absolutely nothing to stop him. Short of breaking his nose. For the second time, mind. "If you're interested, I have a most delightful one of Sherly aged ten and screaming to be taken off a pony."

Holmes wheezed and gurgled, a piece of biscuit wedging halfway down his throat as he swallowed. He fought to push it down, slamming a hand against his chest once, and mingled the rasp into an animalistic growl, fixating his brother with a furiously warning gaze.

But, if there was one force more unstoppable than the caprices of his brother's doubtful sense of humour, it was the wit of Irene Adler. And presently, the shine of her captivating hazel green eyes bereft him quite successfully of any hopes for mercy. Not that he'd _ask_ for her mercy, of course. Never! He'd rather die, this time for real, damn it!

"Why, you must send it to me someday," Irene replied in that tone of a panther livened up after a nap in a sunny spot. "I'm sure he was a lovely little boy," she cooed, reaching to tuck some strands of hair behind his ear, and he flinched away from her touch. She wouldn't bribe herself into his good favours with a few cheap tricks, no.

"Oh, yes, he was delightful," Mycroft almost sang, raising his eyes to the ceiling. Holmes used the opportunity to drop a few carefully collected pepper granules into his tea. "Until he was five he wanted to wear earrings at parties."

Irene gave a light chuckle and deftly recounted the handcuffs story at the Grand.

Holmes felt his eye twitch. He most certainly wasn't humoured by the idea of The Woman and his brother becoming… _bosom buddies_ and dissecting his past and personality over tea and biscuits. No, this atrocity had to be put to end at once!

"Dear brother, do tell me what made you undertake such a _serious_ journey to come see me?" he asked in a loud voice, the acoustic product of his lungs thankfully obscuring another observation Mycroft was beginning to share.

"Why, the concern for your wellbeing, of course," Mycroft replied, but a more serious expression hovered in the depth of his eyes, and Holmes felt his initial alarm return.

"And what reasons have you had recently for this… concern?" he asked in a quiet but clear voice, holding his brother's gaze, not letting him escape from the duty of confession.

Mycroft heave a long and slow sigh, clasping his hands together, fingers threading between each other, rested against the table. Beside him, Holmes saw Irene place her cup back on the saucer in a slow, tense move, eyes rapt with attention, watching his older brother in readiness and focus.

Her presence and input were reassuring – she was clever, quick in action and thought, and connected the obtained information with her own experience. With her aid, he stood a reinforced chance of victory, and that thought sustained him through the more unbearable periods of unproductiveness. Not to mention that the presence of a mind as vigorous and bright as his own provided respite and escape from boredom and (probably) some form of insanity that would grasp him sooner or later on his solitary hunt for Moriarty's men and enterprises.

It wasn't Mycroft's habit to hesitate and play for time. Seeing his brother do that, raised the hairs on the back of Holmes' neck in an unexplained, instinctive alert. Mycroft never delayed his words so much. Never.

"It was recently reported to me that Sebastian Moran was spotted in Switzerland. Heading south from Netherlands, in a straight line."

Moran. The one man that matched Moriarty in determination, and who posed a real threat to their careful plans, was now most likely on their scent. He'd seen them both many times in person, he would recognise them unless in truly elaborate disguises, and should he affirm himself in suspicion they were alive, he'd certainly not rest until they were dead.

Which rather meant they would have to meet him halfway and ensure he died instead. That, in turn, was far easier said than done.

Holmes exchanged a look with Irene. The Woman was silent, face serious and devoid of any expression of the thoughts going through her head, but in her eyes he could read the alarm and instinct to flee. It was an instinct he shared and supported, as it was the only reasonable option, but they could not possibly flee in a hurry, or via sea, or out of the country. And he knew Irene realised that – after all, it was one of her ways of living.

They needed to wipe all traces of themselves. Which, unfortunately, meant only one option – retreating deeper into Italy, making a loop around Moran and slipping past him. Any travel by sea would leave some form of record after them – in people who transported them. And they both knew more than well that for the right price, everyone was an open book to read.

An unexpected brush of wind fluttered through the open window, bringing in the salty scent of sea and possibly oncoming rain.

The winds were changing. The game was on.

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**Hope you enjoyed! Like I said, it might be a multichapter fic one day. What do you think about the idea?**

**Thanks for reading :)**

**Again - reviews are beautiful! :D**


	2. Plans and reasons

**Thank you so much for your reviews, favs and alerts! :D I decided to give it a shot and continue the story... hope I can lead it through to some sort of constructive end :P**

** That said, I'm not entirely happy with this chapter... Watson and Mary, who appear later, don't feel in character to me. But it's a bit of a filler chapter... next one should bring some more excitement.**

**Reviews are beautiful! :D**

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They lay embraced, eyes shining in the darkness of another hot night. This time however, there was a breath of wind coming steadily through the air, carrying a salty, heavy scent which piled a strange sense of restless tension in the atmosphere. Like electricity gathering before the storm.

Irene's fingers traced incoherent patterns across his bare chest, while his thumb brushed rhythmically up and down the silky smooth skin of her hip, their minds ticking away in the taut silence.

Mycroft loathed any activity and 'legwork' as he called it, but when he engaged in some, he made sure the effort was not in vain. He'd organised a man (most trusted man, a contact from France) to arrive in his own boat to the shore, two and a half miles outside the outskirts of Genoa, to a wild bay, barely accessible from land. They were to walk there the next morning, travelling on foot all the way so as not to use any public or private means of transport across the city, which meant they'd have to rise before the sun would. The man would take them to France in safety, sparing them their not at all attractive alternative of weaving their way down Italy, trying quite fruitlessly to shake Moran and his unappealing airgun off their scent.

In France lay another part of Moriarty's gigantic enterprise and another part of Holmes' plan to dismantle it, only Moran's appearance forced him to take on the task sooner than he liked. And that was causing him to presently frown in deep focus and foreboding.

There was no room for mistakes, for rushed actions and for premature moves in this tentative game. What Moriarty had left behind was a quite efficiently functioning web, and though the spider's absence had rendered it more vulnerable, it was still strong and sticky. One false move would cost him his life, this time for certain. His and Irene's… He frowned deeper, unconsciously tightening his hold around her slightly more.

It was perhaps a mistake to allow this… _sentiment_ for her to develop and play something of a factor, even if only an emotional one. There was no future to it, even now when both their lives were in suspension, in… he searched for the right word. Inexistence came close, but failed to be entirely satisfactory. Point was, everything he was now, was undetermined. There was no future, because it all depended on whether he would survive and whether he would succeed – it was too complex and equation, too many variables, to even fathom, begin to imagine what future might be. Therefore, future beyond destruction of Moriarty's crime empire, did not exist.

Therefore, his life as such was not real, in a way. It was different from his 'real life', varying in every respect so much that he at times felt everything was permissible, and it was a mistake. Still, The Woman was always a mistake for him – a most delicious one, too, one that somehow never led to any calamities greater than wounded pride and broken, or maybe even just cracked, heart. As dreadful as those were, they never extended beyond him, weren't harmful to others. Well, perhaps to Watson, when he had to endure his moods. And it was this present feeling of suspension from any of his 'real life' that landed him in Irene Adler's arms. Of course, that happened before already, but under different circumstances.

Now it was fine and allowed. Because he could not see the future, hence could not see any harmful consequence. But there were moments, quite like this one, when he managed to glimpse some future, his imagination contriving to peer beyond Moriarty's web's demise. And in that future he wondered – what would come? Irene… she'd leave, surely. She always did. Only to come back, but she always left nonetheless.

As always, his mind retreated to the present. Because present was most important, he tried to tell himself, but deep down he knew it was his mind being something of a coward, running away from the future. He closed his eyes for a moment and gently brushed his nose against The Woman's. Whatever the future, what he had now was worth the price of later.

At least Mycroft came useful in another respect – he reported the Watsons were faring well, getting on with their lives. Watson was publishing the stories he'd jotted down on their cases together, as a posthumous homage to the fallen detective. Holmes felt rather touched.

It was good to hear the doctor was fine. He hoped Watson had managed to grasp the two small clues he'd left him. If not, the doctor would have to wait with discoveries until it was all over. Yes… all over… again this – the unfathomable future he could not define, because not enough data loomed ahead.

"Not Marseilles," Irene's voice spoke quietly, and he opened his eyes to look at her. "But Provence still. Perhaps the Lubéron mountains."

"Too isolated and secluded settlements. We'd draw attention wherever we went," he pointed out, and brushed his nose against hers again. For some reason it made his stomach warm. "But Provence it is. We shall have to be quick though. And let's hope my brother's man knows to navigate," he finished with an echo of a groan.

Irene giggled quietly.

"Your brother is most delightful," she flashed a sweet smile. "I wonder if it is hereditary that all Holmeses are so very fascinating, or was it some matter of upbringing. Or something in the water your mother drank during both pregnancies."

"It is definitely a trait with predisposition for brilliance, passed on across generations," he replied with great dignity in the face of her last remark. "My grandmother was a brilliant artist. Brilliance can manifest itself in various forms and various fields of life and brainwork."

"The French grandmother?" she smiled, trailing a finger down his chest and abdomen, causing his skin to tingle.

"The very one."

She made a playful sound of contentment in her throat, and then sighed no less contentedly, her warm breath washing over the skin of his chest. Their minds returned to their respective tracks of thoughts, but the paths crossed and intertwined, as they both milled over the subject of Moriarty, escape and Moran.

Mycroft's plan was good and sound in its simplicity, but it was that advantage that also rendered it easy to conceive. Therefore, Moran could easily reconstruct the idea and actions.

"He's stubborn," Irene's voice was soft and clear in the darkness, and he glanced down at her face – she was wearing that wide-eyed look destined to mask her worry. But he knew her better than to believe it. Far better. "He'll always follow us, wherever we go…" seeing his own worry, she stopped trying to keep hers out of her voice. But in that worry there was no defeat, and Holmes was glad – it wasn't like her to be defeated. Unless by him, of course.

"Then we will keep running, until we can draw him into a trap," he replied.

She looked up at him, and have a sad smile that overfilled her beautiful eyes with tenderness and expectation of disappointment.

"Have you planned the trap yet?"

He looked down, away from her, feeling the corner of lips twinge slightly. He had not… She saw his apprehension, and sighed again, stroking his chin with her thumb.

"Is there a possibility we can send your brother our new address once we reach France?" she asked, a playful tune dancing around in her voice, matching the imp in her eyes. "I so much want to see that photograph he promised to send me…"

"Fall asleep, Woman," he commanded her grandly, fighting the pinkish shade from treacherously settling on his ears and cheeks. "We have an early start tomorrow…"

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Watson sighed, tapping his fingers aimlessly against the desk, looking at the paper sheet in the typewriter. His account of the Blackwood case was one of the longest he'd yet written, and presently he trailed off, midway through the slaughterhouse incident. For just a few moments, he needed to rest. For just a few moments, he wouldn't be able to write.

Writing of his heroically deceased friend's antics and brilliance was a pain that helped somewhat mend a far greater hurt. Even though it was an ache to relive each of those moments as they ploughed through their cases, it helped alleviate the crushing realisation of Holmes' absence. But writing of The Woman as well seemed to somehow rattle him more than slightly.

It was perhaps the almost literary tragedy of fate, or the cruelty of Moriarty's destructiveness, or simply, and most likely, the simple sadness in the face of two unique lives taken by the same cause. Two lives intertwined in perhaps the most peculiar and ridiculous romantic involvement he'd ever witnessed, Watson thought, almost managing to smile.

He glanced at the two photographs set on his desk, and nodded slowly to no one in particular, but with much sombreness. Since Holmes felt death was, like many other important things, entirely insignificant and unworthy of attention, he made no will during his life. Therefore, by law, his brother Mycroft had inherited all of his possessions. He kept them in the flat at 221 B, which he continued to pay rent for – a gesture of strange sentiment for the elder Holmes, Watson always thought, but not an unwelcome one, by no means. Further, in that sentiment, Mycroft had asked Watson to select whatever he wanted to keep from amongst his friend's possessions, if such items existed.

There were a few. His pipe (a frankly indestructible thing), his watch and his beloved violin. As Watson was leaving, feeling quite bereft of strength as he carried the three items in a box, his eyes caught the photograph of Irene Adler placed upon the desk, as if its holder was to walk through the door at any moment and glance at it again, as he had in habit. Watson took it as well.

And presently, it was standing beside the photograph of Holmes himself, one of the very few Holmes had taken of himself in the recent years. Watson sighed, looking at them both. Such a tragedy for two so unique, brilliant minds to be taken. Only when one knew that, one realised how high was the cost of ridding the world of James Moriarty.

He'd lie if he said he disliked Irene Adler. He never was fond of her schemes and manipulations, but she was impossible to loathe, her wit amusing, and he always enjoyed the various ways in which she made a proper and complete idiot of his brilliant friend.

Mary strolled into the room, snapping him out of his saddened reverie.

"Mycroft Holmes will be coming to dinner next week, darling," she said with a small smile, carrying a potted fern and setting it on the windowsill. "You didn't forget, did you?" she made sure, turning to look at him, the sunshine lighting up her golden hair.

Beautiful.

"No, darling, no," he replied.

Very surprisingly, after the very odd circumstances of their first meeting, Mary and Mycroft Holmes became something of good acquaintances. Mary seemed to have grown fond of the absolutely eccentric man, and he in turn seemed to find her quaint, an arrangement that was socially pleasing for all involved.

Watson thought it was perhaps Mary's own way of reacting to Holmes' rapid demise. She may have quarrelled with him, he may have insulted her, they may have never gotten along, but she never held any sort of hatred for Holmes, only irritation, which was growing milder as time passed.

"Don't let him see that sad face," she spoke softly now, approaching him. She reached out and stroked his cheek. "He misses him, too, after all."

"I know," he smiled, looking up at her, and squeezed her hand gently in his.

Mary's eyes fell on the two photographs, and her eyes gleamed with curiosity at the sight of the one of Irene Adler's. She lifted it from the desk and examined, a small smile playing about the corners of her lips.

"Who is she?" she asked. "Why, she's certainly beautiful… should I be jealous, doctor Watson?" she asked playfully.

He chuckled, reaching for the photograph.

"Certainly not, you're the most beautiful woman on Earth. No, this is… Irene Adler," he explained. Mary raised her eyebrows.

"Irene Adler? From _A Scandal in Bohemia_?" Mary looked at the photo again, lingering for a moment in silence. There was something on her mind as she traced The Woman's features with her eyes, but she was apprehensive to say it. "I… did not see her at the funeral," she finally said.

"She's dead," Watson said quietly. "By Moriarty's hand."

A quiet gasp slipped from Mary's parted lips.

"How dreadful…! Did…" she swallowed. "Did he know?" she whispered, her beautiful eyes filled with sadness.

He wanted to lie. He wanted to lie and tell his wife that Holmes died unaware of The Woman's end, that he never had to suffer the pain of losing her at Moriarty's bidding… but he could not. He could never lie to her.

"He did," he replied curtly, in an even quieter whisper.

Mary lingered silent for a moment, sitting in his lap, brushing the photograph's frame with her fingertips. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, misty, but touched with some vague light.

"You know, darling, sometimes I think it's for reasons like this that people believe in the afterlife. Not for themselves, but for others. So we can hope that those we love and care for, are somewhere good, where they're fine. And possibly with those _they_ love and care for."

He nodded slowly, and looked up at her.

"You're a very wise woman, Mary Watson," he said earnestly.

She placed the photograph back on the desk, but on the right, instead of left side of Holmes', as it previously was, and now The Woman's eyes seemed to fall on the detective.

Afterlife… Was it really so? Was it a necessity? In this instance, at least?

His mind wandered back to the mysterious question mark he did not remember putting at the end of the Reichenbach tale.

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**Like I said, Watson and Mary didn't feel much in character... I'm having a small creative crisis, I hope to fight it off.**

**Reviews are wonderfully beautiful :D**


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